


pasa at galos

by Hugabug



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Break Up, M/M, Minor Violence, Punching, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9874091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: nagwakas na ang magagandang araw ng mga rosas





	

**Author's Note:**

> the things procrastination will do to you

Nobody, no matter how insane, no matter how crazy, wants to be caught amidst a sour squabble.

But it seems to be Mariano’s natural habitat.

He watched, eyes darting from one passionate argument to another, watching the screaming match the same way one would watch an intense game of gossamer tennis. To an outsider, it must have been comical. These small men shouting at each other in a funny language, a mix of both Spanish and foreign, acting like children arguing over a toy. Mariano himself wished he could laugh, too, even a little bit, join in on the drunken roars of the Luna brothers, Tunying’s loud guffaw and Juan’s quieter but continuous chuckling. He wished he could be drunk, as well. To have warmth envelope all his senses until he’s as numb as his fingers in this infernal winter. To run far away to a place where his troubles could never reach him.

He wished. He really wished.

But he kept it that way. A wish, just an itch at the back of his head. The stakes were too high, the balance tipping precariously from one abyss to another. They’ve already done so much, started so many things—to stop now and to scatter, like dead leaves from a hibernating tree, leaving by choice instead of by force…

That would be their worst downfall. And Mariano would not allow it.

“Ito ba dapat ang pagmumukha na pinapakita natin sa mga Kastila?” Pepe hissed, slamming his fist down against the rickety table, causing the drunks around him to laugh. “Tingnan mo sila, Marcelo! Amoy chico, amoy yosi, amoy puta! Mababa na nga ang tingin ng mga Kastila sa atin!”

“Wala kang karapatan magsalita ng ganyan, Rizal!” Marcelo retorted, stabbing Pepe in the chest with a finger. “Isa ka rin sa ‘min—ang pagsusugal, hm? Ang mga babae? Ano’ng tingin mo sa sarili mo? _Iba_?”

Mariano flinched. Got up from his chair. “Selong—“

“Ngunit ang mga babae ko’y minamahal ko ng lubos.” Pepe smirked, shoved Marcelo away. “Eh ikaw? Sabihin mo nga sa akin—alam na ba ng iyong asawa, ng iyong mga anak, na _wala na_ sa kanila ang puso mo?”

(Pepe was never good at taking a punch. Selong was never good at processing regret.

And nobody in their right mind wanted to be in the middle of everything.

But the middle was Mariano’s spot, and always will be his spot. He knew the stakes, knew what would happen. Knew that divided and scattered they would be the state’s chew toy. That sacrifices had to be made sometimes to save the things you love.)

“Sandali lang— _Tama na_ —!”

When Selong’s knuckles collided with his cheek, there was an audible _crack_ —of bone or of the lenses of his glasses, Mariano wasn’t really sure. He was too busy falling to actually look.

“’Tang ina, Selong!” somebody cried, angry, surprised, as he hit the wooden floor, the curve of his skull colliding _hard_ with the sticky wood and the entire left side of his face _throbbing_. He lay there for a bit. Watched as the world around him, above and below, began to spin out of control.

There was moisture on his cheeks. It was way too watery to be just blood.

“ _Tabi!_ ” somebody screamed, panic high in their voice as they shoved furniture and people aside. “’Tang ina, Selong, sabi ko _tabi!_ ”

Mariano groaned and closed his eyes, trying to stop the steady stream of tears from leaking out. The back of his head throbbed, and he really wished he could apologize to the hands currently lifting him up, hoping that he wasn’t that heavy to carry.

“Ayos lang ako…” he mumbled, feeling dizzy as they set him to his feet and let him lean on one of their shoulders. “Hindi ninyo… kailangan… Ayos lang—“

“ _Tabi!_ ” a booming voice, very similar to the first one but not quite, said, right next to his ear. “’Wag nga kayo makigulo—Kayo nga ang nagpasimuno nito, ‘tang ina ninyo— _Tabi sabi ko!_ ”

Tunying smelt of alcohol, of cheap wine mixed with cheap gin and cheap whiskey. Juan, on his other side, smelled of paint thinner and, hilariously enough, embalming fluid. They held him close and upright, one of their broad hands keeping his face still, bruised cheek pressed against one of their broad chests. He breathed, tried to steady his fluttering lungs, and he leant against them.

He was suddenly very, very tired. And the world, suddenly, was very, very dark.

* * *

He came to on a warm bed, packed snow wrapped with a threadbare towel pressed roughly against his tender face.

It stung, the cold against the raging swell of his cheek. Mariano stirred, tried to open his eyes, gummed down with sleep, and push away the offending freeze. But a hand on his chest stopped him.

“’Wag ka mag-alala, ‘Yano.” a gruff voice reassured him, rough and quiet, barely passing for a sweet coo. “Diyan ka lang muna. Inaasikaso na ni Tunying ang lahat.”

That conjured a comical image. Tunying, a terror of a force, standing tall before Marcelo and Pepe, scolding them, his booming voice echoing across the midnight streets of Madrid.

He laughed. Or tried to anyway. All he managed was a smile before he slipped right back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he came to for a second time, he was alone. The room was dim, the rays of the sun slowly setting behind the horizon.

Mariano lay there for a second, watching the growing shadows engulf his ceiling, clearing the cob webs that stuffed his head like wads of cotton. Everything that could and _should_ be read by his senses danced just before his fingertips, tendrils occasionally licking his consciousness to wakefulness. He felt drunk. Or better yet, he felt hung over.

And a little cold.

* * *

The third time was more difficult than the first. Even more so than the second. This time, he awoke to the warm gentle light of the candle burning by his bed side. The numbness from earlier had lifted, and now his entire body throbbed, dull pain similar to a prodded bruise pulsing through his veins with a vengeance.

He groaned.

A warm hand on his spared cheek was the reply.

“’Ning.” Marcelo said, relief colouring his tone as a long sigh escaped his lips.

Mariano resisted the urge to nuzzle his hand.

“Marcelo.” he said instead, keeping his voice low, to mask the crack of the last syllable. “Ano’ng oras na?”

“Mga alas-onse ng gabi…” Marcelo supplied, a frown in his tone. “Ano’ng pakiramdam mo? Masakit ba ang ulo mo? May problem ba ang mga mata mo?”

Mariano shook his head before he could stop himself. It made him dizzy, and the throbbing turned sharp for a bit, enough to make him nauseated, but he forced it down and sat up. Blinked.

“Nasaan ang salamin ko?” He asked, squinting at the face in the dark. Marcelo was in the chair next to his bed side, entire silhouette a blur.

“Na… basag ang isang lente.” He replied, sheepish and rightfully so. Mariano shut his eyes tight against the sudden wave of irritation, hoping to keep it from showing on his face. But Marcelo picked it up, anyway, and he rushed to add, “Aayusin daw ni Pepe! Sabi niya.”

Before he could stop himself, Mariano tsked. “At bumalik din ulit tayo sa _Pepe_.”

A pause, just a millisecond. A small moment. Mariano squeezed his eyes shut tighter, breathed in through his nose. The bruise throbbed, heavy with tenderness and something else. Marcelo’s fist had hurt him. This whole feud had hurt him, and that made Marcelo re-assess things. He had hurt his Naning and _that_ was what shook him to his core. Never mind the stakes. Never mind their whole nation riding on their shoulders. Mariano breathed, and tried to swallow back his disappointment.

When Marcelo spoke, it was quiet. “Ibabalik ko na sa kanya ang upuan ng _Responsable_.”

“Ah.” Mariano hummed. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He would cave if he opened his eyes.

“Hindi na kami mag-aaway. Pangako ko ‘yon sa ‘yo.”

“Bakit ka nangangako sa ‘kin?” The temperature in the room dropped, and the words came out in a silent hiss. The quiet that followed was longer than the last—the sound of tension before the bowstring snapped, rendering a symphony into a tragedy. It was different from the tension at their meetings, a whirlwind of shouting and a cloud of alcohol. Different from the tension before, heated arguments in the middle of the night spiraling out of control, falling into the haze of slamming doors or messy sex. Here, just on the edge, there was clarity, the last thought before the fall. The words were clear, the decision obvious.

Mariano opened his eyes and was grateful for his blurry sight.

At least from here, he was sure he wouldn’t see the tears fall.

“Ayaw ko na.”

Marcelo froze, face going through a myriad of emotions—confusion, anger, shock, _desperation_ —before forcibly slipping behind a mask of false calm. His mouth didn’t twitch, neither did his nose wrinkle, but his eyes flashed with a plea, _No, don’t do this, Naning, don’t_ —

Mariano forced himself to look.

“Wala na sa tamang lugar ang ating puso’t isipan, Marcelo.” He said, a near whisper. The words hung heavy in his mouth. He forced them out. “Hindi na tama ang ginagawa natin—“

“At ano ang ginagawa natin?” A hand shot out and grabbed his own. Mariano squeezed it and pulled away. “Naning—“

Mariano shook his head and curled arms around himself. In his chest, his heart pound. In his head, his mind spoke. “Masyado na tayong komportable sa puwesto natin dito, Marcelo. Nangako tayo sa ating mga kababayan na nagdudurusa at lumalaban para lang makatamo ng kaunting kalayaan. Nangako tayo na sisikap tayo maging isang tulay sa pagitan ng Pilipinas at repormasyon.” He took a breath. Another. Then another. “Hindi natin ‘to tinutupad, Marcelo. Noong nagsimula ito— _tayo_ , kung ano man tayo—“

Marcelo choked. “Hindi—“

His hand shot out again, tried to grab at one of Mariano’s own. Mariano avoided it, hid his hands against his sides, and felt his very bones start to crack when Marcelo wrapped a desperate grip around his wrist instead. He felt like a raft to a drowning man and a branch to a hanging noose at the same time. His heart thundered. His mind struggled to remain calm.

He had to do this now.

He _had_ to.

“Ito na ang katapusan, Selong.” Mariano rasped, the words scrapping against his throat. Something behind his sternum felt cold and painful, like he’d just been stabbed. Not very far from the truth. “Ayaw na kita makasama.”

 _Ayaw na kita mahalin_.

It had been on the tip of their tongues in months prior, in beds of itchy cotton and arms wrapped around each other to keep the cold at bay. Mariano had never said it, but he’d seen it. He’d felt it. In every smile, in every touch. Now, it was in every labored breath, in pleading eyes, in iron grips. It hurt so much, Mariano wondered how it ever felt good to begin with. Such a feeling. Such a wonderful, addicting, deceptive, _destructive_ feeling.

Marcelo searched his face, gaze wondering over brow and lip, searching for any crack, any hidden joke in any crevice. But Mariano was laid bare. He was right. He knew he was right.

And Marcelo knew it too. It was in his grip, little by little loosening to a limp linger of fingers.

“ _Naning_ —“ he croaked, throat thick with emotion. “Naning, hindi ko kaya—”

But Mariano shook his head.

“Tapusin na natin ‘to.” _Parang awa mo na_. “Marcelo, tapusin na natin ‘to.”

They stared at each other—for how long, neither knew. The candle flickered, and across Marcelo’s face, shadows danced. It was such a beautiful face, aged gracefully like fine wine, intelligence and life carved out with every wrinkle and line. Mariano would miss it. Would miss how it would smile, how it lit up every evening, just for him. He looked at it some more, tried to erase the sorrow written across it. Tried to remember a time when happiness shone from sunken eyes.

Marcelo drew a shuddery breath. “Naning,” he began, agony in every syllable. Like it was painful just to speak his name. “Sabihin mo sa ‘kin. Kahit na hindi siya totoo. Kahit na hindi ‘yan ang nararamdaman mo para sa ‘kin— _sabihin mo_.”

_Sabihin mo sa ‘kin na mahal mo ako._

Something hot dripped down Mariano’s face. He looked away. Hugged himself tighter.

“’Wag, Marcelo.” He whispered, shaking his head. “Masasaktan ka lang.”

 _Snap_ went the bow string. And _slam_ went the door.

Nobody, no matter how insane, no matter how crazy, wanted to be caught in the middle.

But there Mariano was. In the middle of a marriage destroyed by distance. In the middle of an organization destroyed by comfort. In the middle of an affair and the fate of a country he’d forgotten he loved.

There Mariano was. And there he would be, no longer.

The room, once cold, became warm again. Too warm. Stifling. But Mariano found himself craving alcohol. He blew out the candle and tucked himself beneath the covers, dry eyes staring at the over turned chair on the hard wood floor. Outside, the sun’s rays began to burn the sky back into ashen grey. It was winter. The room was hot.

And his bruise, feeling now more like a scar, throbbed in time to the pounding of his broken heart.


End file.
